


Nothing.

by barakitten



Category: nothing - Fandom
Genre: Self Harm, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 20:34:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1912950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barakitten/pseuds/barakitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The worst thing is not feeling sad or depressed. The worst thing is not feeling anything at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing.

Though, that was the problem.

It's like there were two of him, two completely different personalities. The one he has on for the boys, the cameras, the world. Then there's the one only he knows about. The one where he can't muster up a hint of a smile or even a tear. He's just empty, no feelings.  
And really, that's what started all of it.  
The worst thing is not feeling sad or depressed. The worst thing is not feeling anything at all.  
So when he drug that cheap, rusty blade across his unmarked skin, he was shocked.  
He could feel it.  
He felt the pain.  
He could finally feel something, and it was just because of a cheap high off of some sharp metal.  
It was amazing, really. Exhilarating, keeping that big of a secret from everyone who seemed to care about him and love him.  
He had control over who would know about his silly little habit, control over himself.  
And when that one loud, obnoxious girl from gym class mentioned something that winter, he would just turn over his arm and brush it off. Pretend those eight deep, straight lines weren't something to worry about.  
Because really, he wasn't worried.  
And then when he was brushing water off his face, his bracelets would ride up a bit and that weird boy standing next to him would mention it, looking at him pointedly and mentioning something about how those better not be self inflicted. But he smiled and covered the red with the black bracelets, covering his nervousness with fake happiness.  
But then it would really hurt when he's with friends and that boy sitting behind says loudly about how he really hopes those aren't cuts, and he just keeps going while everyone stares at the boy with the pained smile.  
So, he needed a better plan.  
He started slicing the skin of his hips.  
Easy enough to hide, little pink scars under thin fabric.  
And no one noticed, so he continued.  
And then he discovered the sensation of skin burning from the touch of a lighter, the heated metal to the skin of his wrist.

It was lovely.

The addiction to pain continued, along with some marijuana sprinkled in there occasionally.  
He was slowly destroying himself.  
He loved it.  
And eventually, when he was found in a puddle of red, the life drained out of him, it was because of that one reason.  
He downed that bottle of pills and hacked his wrists because he was sick of not being able to feel anything for the past few years of his life.  
He was high on the pills and the pain in his arms was so far past fucking amazing. In his last few minutes alive, he was finally, finally happy. 

And it was worth it.


End file.
